Monday
My agent turns off his monitor quickly as I fall into the room.
“Have you seen them?” I say, picking myself up. Then falling over again.
“Of course not!” he says. “Jeez. What must you think of me? Like I’d click on something like that!”
“Oh yeah?” I say.
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“Definitely not,” he says. “But I wouldn’t worry. You look fantastic in them all. I’d imagine.”
I gaze at him for a while, levelly. He blinks. “What about the one,” I say, “where I’m wearing the Stormtrooper helmet and juggling lobsters?”
My agent’s eyes flick towards the monitor and back.
“Um. What?” he says.
“You’re so full of ****,” I say.
Tuesday
Kate Upton calls and says she’s in the same boat and wants to know how I feel about it.
“I’m, like, really sorry,” I say, falling off my chair, “but I don’t know who you are.” Kate says she’ll send me a photo.
“Best not,” I say, quickly.
“Of my face?” says Kate.
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“Oh right,” I say. Then I say not to bother because I’m next to my computer anyway, and can just Google her. And I do, and I’m quite shocked.
“My God,” I say. “These are awful! And so many of them!
“Poor you! I mean, the very first thing that comes up is one of you on a beach, falling out of a bikini! And here’s one of you covered in soy sauce!”
Kate says they were both for Sports Illustrated.
“Oh,” I say.
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Wednesday
A man from Apple has asked to see me.
“We haven’t seen them!” he says, really quickly.
“I was wondering when you guys would show up,” I say. “Or if you’d have the nerve.”
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The guy from Apple says they’re really sorry. Mortified, in fact. But also, he adds, they’ve noticed that the resolution is quite low, so he’s brought me a new phone.
“I thought you hadn’t seen them,” I say.
“Oops,” he says.
Thursday
Jack Nicholson calls and says he hasn’t seen them, but wonders if I’d like to go for dinner. Walmart calls and says they haven’t seen them, either, but they wonder if I’d like them to send over a few dressing gowns.
Kim Kardashian calls and says she has totally seen them, and wonders if I’ll refer her to my network provider.
Later, I’ve a meeting with my stylist, who is of course Lenny Kravitz. “You’ve had a tough week,” he says, as he brushes my hair.
“Yep,” I say, biting my lip.
“We should have thought of this,” he says, “when we started setting fire to all of your clothes.”
Friday
Kim Kardashian invites herself round and turns up at the exact same time as a delivery man from Apple.
“Brrr,” he says. “Thought it’d be warmer in here.”
“Why?” I say.
“Nothing!” he says.
Then he says he’s brought me a new prototype that Apple has designed entirely to meet the needs of celebrities like me. Then he goes away.
“Dude,” says Kim Kardashian. “It’s not that surprising. Pick yourself up.”
“Do I even know you?” I say.
Kim says she can’t remember. Then we open the box and it has this really weird thing in it. It’s black, with a dial, and a cable, and two things that look like speakers, connected by a stick.
And Kim takes off her top and says I should use it to take a photograph of her, and tweet it, or Instagram it, or perhaps not even bother because you don’t have to anymore.
But we fiddle with it for, like, ages and ages, and we just can’t figure out how.
*according to Hugo Rifkind